


Blending In

by witchfutaba



Series: Tales from the Tower [1]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:49:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22036594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchfutaba/pseuds/witchfutaba
Summary: Drifter prides himself on his ability to be unseen.
Series: Tales from the Tower [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612600
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Blending In

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first ficlet-drabble-thing pls be nice

People assume that because the Drifter isn't constantly peering over their shoulders the same way the Vanguard are that he doesn't hear the whispers that permeate the tower. They are painfully wrong.

Living through the Dark Age gives one an uncanny ability to be unseen, something Drifter likes to take advantage of. The unfaltering smile disguises a litany of observations he holds, peering through the soul of all of those who walk through his little hole in the wall of the Vanguard's basement. He sees those who are constantly rotating through his space, an uncanny glee on their faces as they grow addicted to the violence and unhinged madness of Gambit as he fuels their sordid obsessions with bounties and tinkered weapons in his spare moments. He sees those who avoid gambit like the plague, filtering in once every few weeks or even months when their over-enthusiastic friends have convinced them that no, really, heavy ammo isn't as obnoxious as it used to be. There are those who believe they slip his grasp, coming in among the crowds in their drab colours and standard-issue armour attempting not to be seen or affiliated with the crooked lightbearer. They do not, in fact, slip his grasp.

This, of course, extends to those upstairs who like to think of themselves as running the Tower. Ikora assumes he does not see her colluding with her hidden, conspiring with the Praxic order to desperately attempt to find him guilty of some crime so grand it would warrant his excommunication from the City without arousing suspicion. Zavala dismisses the claim as hogwash when one of his younger recruits points out Drifter may have been observing his knitting classes some cycles ago. Even Shaxx himself dismisses Drifter as a sad man who lives in a basement, unknowingly insulting the only man who somehow has seen the legend without his fabled mask on. Drifter sees all of this occuring, though no one would have pegged him as the type to be so observant.

Yet, despite blending in to such an extent, the man chooses not to utilise such knowledge. While he admits to himself that the slow unraveling of the tower by way of feeding seeds of unspoken information to one guardian for them to spread it like a plague would be amusing, it would not benefit him. He reflects sometimes, looking at the cracks in his nails as he flicks his coin back and forth in front of the swirling abyss of his bank, thinking of the visions the Nine have cursed him with of the future. Sweeping pyramids, the Tower in flames, friends dying in front of one another. No, spreading such information would not do one bit of good. He smiles to himself, the coolness of the room permeating his skin, as he thinks on some of the more amusing tidbits he has observed. No one would have noticed Drifter's friendly face blending in under the guise of a janitorial outfit, sweeping away at a hall while two aspiring Cryptarchs discuss their childish crushes on Rahool. He goes unseen as he organises papers on a bench, Ikora insisting for the umpteenth time to another guardian that death by her Nova Bomb would not be "hot". He samples street food as he observes Saint-14 chase a man in full force after he attempted to kick a pigeon that had been pecking at his shoes.

Indeed all of these things are catalogued in the Drifter's mind, stored for some other darker time when laughs would be in low supply. The man leans on the cherry-red bars in his little room, a light creaking as they support his weight once more and he shuts his eyes to think upon the future. Preparing for the coming apocalypse takes a lot out of a person, something he will be sure to justify himself with when asked why he continues to seek out these moments. One observant guardian in fact did once pick up on his antics, and when confronting him he simply laughed it off.

"Why'd I do it, sister? Heh... for a little laugh, of course."


End file.
